Gord

2026-07-27 01:51 pm

Fuck me, then hold me tight,
Trust, as in the form of twine,
Money, in the former tides. 

Naked, in my clothes of pride, 
Closed an eyelid, time passes, 
I feel I'm running out of line, 
How can i tell you I am dying?

Nothing gives me solace,
Honey, as in for the flies,
Envy, in the form of desire,
Already in the poem writer,
Nothing leads sorrowful eyes.